


crossing the bar

by s-k-y-s-o-l-o (orphan_account)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6127942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/s-k-y-s-o-l-o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People are machines, Finn thinks. Not that that's always a bad thing. There are always people who are willing to fix things that are broken, and who will help you do what you're born to do.<br/>(People like Poe)</p>
<p>(the title is from a Tennyson poem of the same name).</p>
            </blockquote>





	crossing the bar

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Has this been done? Probably. I don't care. It's a cute idea, and I'm writing it. I'm new to AO3 (and fic writing in general, considering this is the first fanfiction I think I've ever posted), so be gentle. But more importantly, loud. I need feed

People are machines, Finn thinks. And they are beautiful.

_(the polished rusty brown of Rey's hair in the sunlight, the strong angle of her jaw)_

_(the silver glint in Poe's eyes, the crooked curl of his smile, his small, straight teeth)_

_(friends? are they my friends?)_

Machines break all the time, in small insignificant ways that build up and up unless you fix them yourself, with a wrench and a steady heart. He thinks this is maybe where Kylo Ren went wrong. There's a lot of bad machinery in his chest, a tiny sandstorm locked in a bruised heart.

_(wires hiss, cogs glow and fall apart and reassemble in a familiar monotony of hell and metal)_

The thing about machines is, they can go on forever if somebody cares about them enough. Finn was raised as a makeshift machine gun, held together by cheap parts and conditioning, disposable as the next unit, and the next, and the next. He was one machine in a sea of hundreds of thousands of machines.

_(dust flies, guns fire, a friend screams_ traitor! _in the distance)_

He likes to think he's not a gun anymore.

Because when Poe laughs at him, when Poe shoots him a crooked smile, when Poe shoots him _that look_  and tells him to keep his jacket...he's not a gun anymore.

He feels...like a _ship_. Powerful, fast, respected and cared about. He could zip through the galaxy, gather all the stars and drop them in Poe's lap just to get a smile out of him, a laugh, a touch.

Or maybe he couldn't.

These big machines, these powerful, fast, respected machines that are cared about...they can't operate by themselves. They need a pilot.

_(You need a pilot? I need a pilot)_

Poe definitely has a ship, although he doesn't know it. He doesn't know that all he needs to do is take the controls, slam the buttons, set the wheels in motion, crash his lips against the ones he gave a name to.

And that's ok. Because ships are built to last. And he'll wait as long as he has to.

People are like machines, he thinks. And Poe is beautiful.


End file.
